


Radiant

by dontcareajot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, a writer dipping her toe into the water, compatible with all headcanons, this is really more pre-slash than slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcareajot/pseuds/dontcareajot
Summary: In which Aziraphale is hopelessly oblivious and there is talk of a seaside cottage.





	Radiant

Crowley first brings up the cottage at dinner on a rather dreary Tuesday night.

It’s only been a handful of days since their respective brushes with hellfire and holy water, only a few more days since they managed to stop Armageddon (though, admittedly, whether or not _they_ actually had anything to do with stopping it is debatable at best). Neither of them have put voice to their feelings on the whole matter but they’re both shaken, to put it lightly. Even now. Especially now, perhaps, that all is said and done and they’ve had time to properly come to grips with how they nearly lost everything. Aziraphale has certainly made note of Crowley’s increased presence in his life. Made note and not breathed a word of complaint. He suspects Crowley craves the reassurance of their continued coexistence as much as Aziraphale does, which is to say _a lot_.

Aziraphale really doesn’t mind the slight shift the status quo has taken as far as that goes. He and Crowley make plans nearly every day now. Or sometimes they don’t make plans but still wind up gravitating toward one another, handy excuses at the ready. There is a very loud, obnoxious part of Aziraphale that still fears Michael or Gabriel might be waiting for him around any corner, ready to slap him on the wrist (or worse) for consorting with a demon. He’s been living with that possibility hanging over his head for six thousand years, thus it’s a difficult mindset to overcome. He’d be shocked if Crowley weren’t in the same boat, only with the threat of Beelzebub nipping at his heels instead of the archangels, though Crowley has mentioned nothing of the sort. If he’s at all worried about Hell and Hell’s agents he hides it very well.

Aziraphale is just taking his first bite of cheesecake (he’s been indulging more often since the near-apocalypse, so sue him) when Crowley shifts forward in his chair and says, tone unreadable, “So, I’ve been thinking.”

There’d been a brief silence just before this and therefore no handy segue that would lend Aziraphale a clue as to what Crowley might be getting at now. He gestures somewhat impatiently with his fork. “Well, go on then, my dear.”

Crowley leans forward even further, propping one elbow on the table, dangerously close to the cup of black coffee he’d ordered in lieu of proper food. “I’ve been thinking it might be time for a change of scenery. I mean, how long have we been in London anyway? Ages, it seems.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says slowly. “So you want to… get away for a bit?”

Crowley snaps his fingers. Excitement creeps into his tone as he says, “Yes, that’s it exactly, angel. Like a holiday of sorts.”

And here Aziraphale had been thinking Crowley craved his company. Aziraphale frowns down at his cheesecake. It’s delicious, as far as cheesecakes go. Crowley had brought him to this suspect looking hole-in-the-wall type place and Aziraphale hadn’t known what to think, but. Well. Crowley has proven in recent history to have a knack for sniffing out the best sorts of places. Aziraphale shouldn’t have doubted him.

“Where?” he asks.

“Oh,” says Crowley, like he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I dunno, really. Somewhere remote, I think. It’s been enough of the hustle and bustle of city life, eh? I’m sure I could find a little cottage somewhere. By the sea, maybe.”

“A seaside cottage.” Aziraphale nods and hums appropriately. “Sounds quaint.” Quaint, and dreadfully far away. Aziraphale sets his fork down. He slides the cheesecake halfway across the table, where it sits forlornly.

“Only for a little while,” Crowley goes on. “I’m done with all that temptation business now, I thought I might take up, I dunno. Blessed bird watching or something. I could become an angler. A gardener.”

“You’re already sort of a gardener,” Aziraphale points out. He’d quite liked Crowley’s plants. He’d only just seen them for the first time when they’d been wearing each other’s faces for a while and he’d had no idea the demon possessed such a green thumb. Crowley was full of hidden talents, it seemed.

“Yes, well,” Crowley says, shifting in his seat. “I could branch out to food, you know. Learn to cook or something.”

“What on earth for? You don’t even like food all that much.”

Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale considers. He can’t quite meet Crowley’s eye when he says, as kindly as he can muster, “Well, dear boy, if you want to go then you should go. It might be good for you to get away after all that anti-Christ business, hm?”

“Ah,” says Crowley. Just that.

The mood at the table takes a sudden nosedive after their exchange, for reasons Aziraphale can’t ascertain. Was it what he’d said? He’d only meant to encourage. Although the thought of Crowley going off on his own leaves a bitter taste in Aziraphale’s mouth, he truly wants what’s best for the demon. And if Crowley feels he needs a mental health holiday in the country then who is Aziraphale to argue? Besides, it would be selfish of Aziraphale to ask Crowley to stay. Terribly selfish.

Crowley lets it drop. Aziraphale’s cheesecake goes unfinished, which might be a first.

-

To Aziraphale’s admitted relief, the cottage doesn’t come up again for nearly a month. When Crowley decides to mention it, it’s a full moon and they’re both teetering on the edge of drunk. Aziraphale is certainly buzzed, to the point that everything makes him laugh and it seems like nothing could be wrong in the whole world. Crowley accused him once of being a giggly drunk. Nonsense. Aziraphale is simply a _happy_ drunk. There is a small yet crucial difference, in that one maintains his dignity and the other makes him out to be a schoolgirl. Crowley is one to talk, anyway. Aziraphale’s lost count of how many times he’s coaxed a smile out of Crowley tonight. And he _was_ counting. There’s nothing quite like Crowley’s genuine, unfettered smile. Smiling was something he didn’t do enough of as a general rule so Aziraphale saw each one as a small victory.

“Wait, look,” says Crowley, apropos of nothing. He’s hanging upside down off the sofa, head nearly touching the floor. He somehow manages to extract his mobile phone from his trouser pocket without righting himself. “Here, come here. I want to show you.”

“Then show me,” says Aziraphale, amused. Whatever it is has got Crowley excited.

Crowley does right himself, then, flipping so his legs are the proper way round. Then he and Aziraphale are shoulder to shoulder, close enough to share heat. And Crowley has a lot of heat to share. “Here,” says Crowley again. He shoves his mobile under Aziraphale’s nose.

Aziraphale struggles to bring the screen into focus. He blinks at it a few times.

“The cottage,” Crowley clarifies.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. His mood doesn’t sour but it certainly dims. He studies the picture. It’s… lovely, actually. He can practically taste the sea air, can practically feel the sun on his cheeks. It looks exactly like the sort of place one might settle down. _Truly_ settle down. It looks like the perfect place for long, lazy mornings, hot cups of tea, evenings by the fire, good books and good company.

“Well?” Crowley presses. “What do you think, angel?”

“It’s lovely, of course,” Aziraphale hedges. “You knew that.”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits. He puts his mobile away. His shoulder bumps Aziraphale’s. “There’s a… a wine cellar. Or there could be.”

“Hm.”

“Just saying,” Crowley murmurs.

“It doesn’t seem your style,” Aziraphale points out, rather fairly he thinks. He gestures about Crowley’s flat with the hand that isn’t holding his drink. 

Crowley grins, then, showing teeth. “Don’t put me in a box.”

Aziraphale smiles back, can’t help it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They lapse into a brief silence before Crowley abruptly pushes to his feet. “Chess,” he declares, just this side of too loudly. “We haven’t played in ages.”

And so they play and the angel wins but Crowley keeps smiling at him anyway and- well. It’s a good night. The kind of night there should be more of, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion.

-

The third time the cottage is brought up Aziraphale is the one to do it, bursting out in the middle of an unrelated conversation on the topic of whether or not Heaven had anything to do with the invention of croquet with, “Listen, Crowley, I just don’t think you should go.”

Just this once, Aziraphale wants to be selfish. He’s been thinking about it for the last several nights. He’s not a creature who needs sleep but if he were he’d certainly have lost some over it, as much as he’s been fretting about the whole thing. He’d even chatted with a customer earlier in the day about the matter, though not in blatant terms. The customer had been a willing enough ear, an older woman keen to insert her nose into everyone else’s business, and she’d kindly advised, _just tell him how you feel_. Easier said than done, Aziraphale is discovering.

Crowley stops talking, eyebrows raised, so Aziraphale presses on. “I know I said it was a good idea, but. But what would you even _do_ out there, all by yourself? There are probably bugs and- and mice, maybe, and-“

“Bugs and mice?” Crowley echoes, eyebrows climbing higher.

“And don’t you think you’d get _lonely_ , after a while?” Aziraphale soldiers on. “I know I’m not always the best company, but-“

Crowley is smiling now, lips curled up at one side. “Oh, but you are,” he assures. His voice is cool, slicing cleanly through Aziraphale’s nervous rambling. “The best company.”

“Then why ever would you want to _leave_?” Aziraphale asks, not bothering to hide his distress. He’s putting all his cards on the table now, he supposes. Isn’t this what they fought for? Freedom? Free and clear friendship, unbound by the laws of Heaven and Hell? Now they’ve finally got it and Crowley is, it seems, dead set on getting away before they’ve even settled in to this new way of life.

Crowley thinks for a moment. He sighs, removes his sunglasses, squints across the table at Aziraphale. “First of all,” he says slowly. “It’s not like I’m talking about heading for bloody Alpha Centauri. You could still pop round for a visit anytime you like.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue the point but Crowley stops him with a raised finger.

“Secondly, my darling oblivious angel, I was never talking about going _alone_.” As he begins to clean his glasses on his shirt he scoffs and murmurs, more to himself than Aziraphale, “Alone. Ridiculous. Why would I go alone?”

The metaphorical lightbulb goes off and Aziraphale stammers, “O-oh. You wanted to…”

“Go with you, yes.” Crowley’s foot is tapping. He folds his glasses and sets them down on the table. “Honestly, Aziraphale, I thought you knew that from the beginning and were just letting me down, you know. Gently.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. This revelation changes everything. There’s a budding, tentative hope in Aziraphale’s chest, replacing whatever hurt feelings have been residing there recently. Crowley wants to stay with him. He wants them _both_ to leave London. Together.

As Aziraphale’s silence draws itself out, Crowley begins to look worried. It’s subtle but definitely there, lurking in his eyes. Aziraphale quite likes Crowley’s eyes. He always figured he wasn’t _supposed_ to, being that they mark him firmly as _the opposition_ , but at this point Aziraphale thinks it’s probably alright to admit things to himself he’s been keeping bottled up for the better part of the last six thousand years.

“The cottage _was_ rather lovely,” he hedges.

Some of Crowley’s worry dissipates. Aziraphale sees his hope reflected. “It is.”

“I could keep the shop. For storage. No one would bother it, I don’t think.”

“We could make sure of that.”

They stare at each other. Then, simultaneously, they grin. Aziraphale reaches across the table to place his hand over Crowley’s where it rests at the center. This, too, he can allow himself to have, probably. Who is it hurting? Not Crowley, who turns his hand palm up to meet him.

“Now,” says Aziraphale. “About this wine cellar…”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr, and I hope to write more for these two in the near future! Come say hi and request a ficlet right over [here](https://dontcareajot.tumblr.com/)! My ask box is always open.


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